The Celtic Warrior and a McMahon Walk into a Bar
by kgregs
Summary: One-shot. Hannah McMahon only agrees to go on a date with Sheamus so that her father will stop pestering her about it. She's sure the evening will be a total waste of her time; but between an expensive bottle of wine and hustling 900 dollars from a Cuban could-be drug lord, they wind up having a first date they'll never forget. Sheamus/OC. Part of the "Turn On the Lights" series.


_**A/N:** For those of you already familiar with my OC Hannah McMahon—surprise! You may remember way back in chapter three of "Turn On the Lights" it being mentioned that Vince had tried to set Hannah up with Sheamus once upon a time. Well, I decided to turn that little piece of Hannah's history into a one-shot. I'm super excited about this, and I really hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also, if there's any other one-shots you would like me to write about Hannah, please let me know!_

_For those of you not familiar with Hannah McMahon, don't worry—**you can definitely read this without having previously read "Turn On the Lights,"** because this one-shot takes place a year before the events of that fic. I hope you enjoy this, as well, and maybe you'll be compelled to check out the larger story afterward, which features CM Punk, The Shield, and many others :)_

_Okay, I'll shut up now. Please read and review!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except Hannah McMahon and the plot._

* * *

**The Celtic Warrior and a McMahon Walk into a Bar**

_Friday, March 30, 2012  
__InterContinental Miami hotel  
__Miami, Florida_

Hannah was more anxious than a whore in church. Why had she agreed to this again? Oh, that's right: she had agreed so that her father would quit pestering her. Once Vincent Kennedy McMahon set his mind on something, he _would not quit_ until he got his way; and unfortunately for Hannah, his mind was currently set on getting her together with none other than the soon-to-be World Heavyweight Champion, Sheamus.

Well, tonight she was _finally_ going on a date with the Irishman, so dear old dad better _shut the hell up_ about it already.

At least, she _thought_ she was going on a date with Sheamus. It was 7:58 p.m., and he had said he would pick her up at 8. As apprehensive as she was, if he stood her up Hannah didn't know whether she'd be more relieved or insulted.

_Knock-knock-knock._

"Oh shit."

She jumped up and looked herself over one last time. Every strand of her long dark waves was perfectly in place and her makeup was immaculately done. Her tan legs looked a mile long thanks to the four-and-half inch gold strappy heels and the long-sleeved blue mini dress she was wearing; the azure color made her eyes pop. Hannah had to hand it to herself: she looked _good_.

With one final calming breath she grabbed her gold clutch and opened the door—and her date's eyes widened when they caught sight of her.

"Hannah!" Sheamus—er, _Stephen_—scanned her over from head to toe. He was obviously taken with her appearance. "Wow. You look unbelievable."

Her face flushed as he greeted her with a polite peck on the cheek. "Oh, thanks. You clean up pretty well, yourself." Really, he did. He looked quite handsome in the dark wash jeans, black button-up, and dark gray vest he was wearing.

But she still didn't want to go on this date.

"So," Stephen started, "shall we?"

Hannah gave him a winning smile. _No, I'd rather stay here and eat French fries and cookies, thanks. By myself._ "Of course."

* * *

Stephen took Hannah to The Capital Grille in downtown Miami. She had been there many a time before—not in Miami, but back home in Stamford. It was a favorite restaurant of celebrities, socialites, and the financially well to do, and while the food was fantastic Hannah also thought it was rather _stuffy_. She had thought he would have taken her somewhere with a bit more flair, especially for a first date.

"Did I pick tha wrong restaurant?"

Hannah looked up from the menu at Stephen. "What? No!" she jumped. _Why'd he ask that? Was I making a face?_ "I actually come here all the time. Well, not _here_, but you know. It just wasn't what I was expecting."

"What were ya expecting? A pub?"

He was grinning; it was a joke. Because he was Irish. Hannah smiled to herself.

"I would have been absolutely fine with a pub," she honestly answered. "Although that probably would have been the last place you would want to go, right?"

"Not if it was a good authentic Irish one," he said. "But those are hard ta come by."

"Well, you didn't pick the wrong restaurant," she reassured. "It's nice that we have this area all to ourselves."

That was actually _very_ nice. The hostess had seated them in a smaller private dining space overlooking the main dining room, and Hannah certainly appreciated the seclusion. There was bound to be _someone_ in the restaurant who recognized Stephen; after all, WrestleMania XXVIII was less than 48 hours away, and thousands of WWE fans had descended on Miami from all corners of the globe. At least this way no one would interrupt and make this already awkward date even _more_ awkward.

"Yeah, I t'ought it would be a good idea," Stephen agreed. "You know, wit' all tha fans being around and everything."

"Wait," Hannah realized. "_You_ did this?"

"Well, yeah. Don't seem so surprised," he said with a smirk. "I may be tha Celtic Warrior, but I know how ta treat a woman."

Hannah couldn't stifle her laugh. Maybe she hadn't given Stephen enough credit, after all.

The waiter arrived and took their order: Hannah got the dry aged sirloin steak; Stephen the double cut lamb rib chops; and they decided to get an order of the parmesan truffle fries to share. Oh, and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Hannah would need a few glasses of that.

But the wine hadn't arrived yet, and as Hannah couldn't think of anything (not completely lame) to say, they slipped into an uncomfortable lull. She was laughably out of practice at this, the whole dating game. It had been years—yes, _years_—since she had even been on a proper date. Add the fact that this wasn't just any old "normal" date, but a date with the very soon-to-be World Heavyweight Champion, and it was hardly an ideal situation. _Just be yourself, Hannah. It's worked before. Sort of._

"So—"

"I—"

They spoke up at exactly the same moment. Hannah flushed. "Go ahead."

"No, no," Stephen insisted. "Ladies first."

"Well," Hannah started again, "I was just gonna say that it's been a while since I've been on a date. So I apologize ahead of time for being completely awkward."

That statement was completely awkward in and of itself, but Stephen didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed rather intrigued. "I find that hard ta believe."

"What?"

"That ya haven't been on a date in a while."

"Oh," Hannah smiled coyly down at her lap. "Really, I haven't. I don't really go on dates, to be honest. Every relationship I've ever had has just sort of… happened." _Like that time last summer with the current WWE Champion…_

"I see," Stephen nodded. "So I guess I'm already at a disadvantage then, considerin' nothin's just _happened_ between us."

There was a glimmer of amusement in his eye, but he had put Hannah between a rock and a hard place. What was she supposed to say to that? She fumbled to find the right words. "Well no, I mean just because nothing's happened—"

"Hannah, it's all right," Stephen interrupted; and then he said something completely unexpected. "I know yer dad put ya up ta this, so don't worry about hurting my feelings. Ta be perfectly honest, I only agreed because I was afraid he'd take away my World Heavyweight Title match if I didn't."

The sudden confession had the affect of a good massage: it released every ounce of tension in Hannah's body. She was _so_ unbelievably relieved. The giant elephant in the room had finally been acknowledged, and with the reality of the situation out in the open perhaps this could actually be an enjoyable evening.

But Stephen must have misread the look on her face, because he quickly launched into nervous clarification. "I mean obviously that wasn't the _only_ reason. Yer Hannah McMahon an' yer absolutely gorgeous an' I would be stupid not ta take ya out… an' I'm just gonna shut up before I dig this hole any deeper."

Hannah smiled as she shook her head. "No really, it's fine," she assured him. It was actually quite comforting to see him get so flustered—she wasn't the only awkward one. "Trust me, I'm relieved you said something about the fact that this wasn't our idea."

The waiter returned with their bottle of wine, and not a moment too soon. He poured them both a glass, and as he walked away Hannah held hers up in toast.

"Well, here's to awkward dates."

"Cheers," Stephen agreed, and they drank.

* * *

Hannah wasn't entirely sure how the date had devolved from a classy evening at a Zagat rated restaurant to a drunken affair at a hole-in-the-wall cantina, but it had. It probably had something to do with the wine—that expensive stuff was _potent_.

"Wait," Stephen was nearly doubled over the pool table laughing. He wasn't nearly as buzzed as Hannah—he was a 6-foot-4, 267-pound Irishman, after all—but evidently he was extremely entertained by what she had just told him. "So at SummerSlam 2003 you put Orajel on Randy Orton's cigarettes an' it made his lips go numb?"

"Yeah," Hannah nodded as she started to laugh herself. "He had to do a live backstage segment with numb lips. Oh my God, he was _so_ fucking pissed."

"_Why?_" Stephen was still laughing. "I mean why did ya do that to 'im?"

"Because he was an egotistical dickwad! But I was also 17, so I didn't know any better."

"Did ya get in trouble?"

Hannah winced as she took a sip of her margarita. "Yeah… my dad didn't let me go to any shows for a long time after that, and he grounded me for a month. But everyone else thought it was hilarious. Well, you know—everyone except Randy."

Stephen sent her an impish smirk. "You had a crush on 'im, didn't ya?"

Hannah's eyes widened. "On who? _Randal?_ No!"

"Oh come on," he dubiously returned. "You were a 17-year-old girl an' ya didn't have a crush on Randy Orton?"

"Did _you_ have a crush on Randy Orton when you were a 17-year-old-girl, Stephen?"

Stephen's expression went stony. Hannah gave him a toothy grin. "Just fer that, I'm gonna sink the seven," he said.

"But the seven is my _favorite!_" she proclaimed in mock devastation—but just as he promised, Stephen sunk it in the bottom left corner pocket. Hannah scowled at the cocky smirk he sent her. She was going to have to catch up, and soon; he was kicking her ass.

But before Stephen could set up his next shot, their waitress interrupted—and she had a full shot glass with her. "The gentleman in the gray suit over there bought you this," she said to Hannah, and she set the glass down and walked away.

Hannah was at a loss for words. Some random man had bought her a drink? Did he have a death wish? It was pretty obvious that she was here with Stephen, and he was most definitely not the kind of person any _smart_ man would dare to cross. She looked over to where the waitress had nodded, wondering who could have been so dumb, and found a tall Latino man smirking at her from the bar. His black hair was slicked back and greasy, his suit was shiny and gaudy, and his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned nearly halfway down his chest. Hannah arched an unimpressed brow. So he wasn't dumb, per se. He was just cocky.

Stephen had spotted the culprit, as well—and he reacted just as Hannah expected. "Is this bastard really tryin' ta steal my date?"

"You don't have anything to worry about," she flatly returned; but all of a sudden Stephen snatched up the shot. "What're you doing?"

"I'm takin' it myself," he declared. It made Hannah grin—she could play this game, too. She sidled up to Stephen, wrapped her arm around his waist, and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek as he took the shot. To add insult to injury, Stephen raised the glass in thanks as he glared over at the Latino. That would show him to send another man's date a drink.

"Ugh," he cringed as the alcohol went down, turning away so that the Latino wouldn't see. "Tequila."

Hannah smirked at him. "Can't handle it?"

"Trust me, Hannah," he said with a roguish look at her, "I can handle anything."

Hannah felt herself start to blush. She hadn't expected Stephen to be so suggestive, and she certainly hadn't thought she would enjoy it this much.

They returned their attention to their game of pool, and Stephen made embarrassingly quick work of her. She adamantly blamed the loss on her attire: it was impossible to bend over in her dress without showing off her barely there underwear to the entire bar, so she had to squat, which made shooting rather awkward. Stephen grinned and offered to stand behind her this time around, but she just rolled her eyes and gave him a shove.

But as Hannah was racking up the second game they were interrupted again. It was Mr. Shiny Suit himself.

He marched right up to Stephen and stared him down with hard dark eyes. He was a good four inches shorter and many pounds of muscle smaller than the Irishman, but that didn't seem to make a difference to him. His machismo had been insulted, and he had come to even the score.

"Do you think that was cute, what you did there, cabrón?"

Stephen's lip curled as he stared down his nose at the Latino. Hannah could tell that he wasn't in the least bit intimidated by this Alberto Del Rio wannabe. Why would he be? He was a two-time WWE Champion, for crying out loud. "Yeah, fella, I do."

Oh no—he had dropped a "fella." If this guy didn't watch himself, he'd be getting Sheamus instead of Stephen.

Nevertheless, whoever he was, he clearly didn't recognize the Celtic Warrior. That, or he just didn't care. "Okay. Well since you want to go and steal my money, how about I steal yours? What do you say we play a game of pool? Whatever you put down, I'll double it—winner takes all."

Hannah was rooted to her spot. She had no desire to get in the middle of this testosterone-fueled showdown, and anyhow she knew Stephen well enough—hell, she knew _wrestlers_ well enough—to know that nothing she could say would dissuade him from accepting the challenge. She was just going to have to ride this one out, whether she liked it or not; and honestly, she was rather interested to see what would happen.

"You got yerself a deal," Stephen agreed. "I have $300 in my wallet, so with yer contribution that brings tha total to 900. I hope ya don't have ta pawn that nice gold chain after I'm through wit' you."

The Latino grit his teeth. Hannah took a seat. _We really shouldn't have drank that whole bottle of wine…_

* * *

The game of pool had turned out to be far more competitive than anyone had anticipated. Stephen was stripes and the Latino was solids—and also quite the pool shark. It was no wonder he had made such a cocky bet: he had the skill to back it up.

Stephen had taken the table first, getting the 10 ball in off the break and then sinking the 14 and 9 in succession. But after he had failed to get the 15 in the left side pocket, the Latino had come in and nearly cleaned house. He sunk the 4, and then the 2, and then the 5, and then the 3—but when he had pocketed the 1 on a tricky shot he had also pocketed the cue ball. It had been a huge break for Stephen, and he had gotten in the 13 and 11 thanks to the screw-up; but he had missed the 12. Now the Latino was up again, and after easily sinking the 7 only the 6 and 8 remained—and they were positioned right next to each other, with the 8 ball sitting precariously on the edge of the right side pocket.

Of course Hannah recognized the peril of the shot. The Latino had a clear path to land the 6 in the top right corner pocket, but if he made even the slightest miscue he would likely accidentally sink the 8 ball, thus losing the game. On the other hand, if he _did_ cleanly make the 6 ball, the 8 ball—and the $900 jackpot—would be his for the taking.

She glanced over at Stephen. He was standing with his massive arms crossed over his chest, and the hardened look on his face betrayed a belief that he was about to lose.

_Not if I can help it._ It was time for Hannah to use her _assets_ to her date's advantage.

Conveniently, there was a barstool that just so happened to already be located right in the Latino's critical line of sight. He was bent over the table, calculating the all-or-nothing shot, and Hannah took the opportunity to gingerly slide up into the seat. Her long legs caught his attention, and when he looked up at her she gave him a suggestive grin as she placed her drink straw in between her lips. She had him now: he was staring at her mouth, undoubtedly imagining that that wasn't a _straw_ between her lips. Hannah could see Stephen smirking from where he stood. He was onto her game.

Somehow the Latino managed to tear his eyes away from Hannah and refocus on the game. But that was precisely what Hannah wanted him to do. He steadied himself, set up the shot, and pulled back his cue stick—and just before he hit the cue ball, Hannah uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them on the other side. The distraction worked just as she had hoped: the Latino miscued, and the 8 ball went right into the side pocket.

"Well, fella, looks like ya've lost!" Stephen proclaimed with a massive grin. He quickly claimed the $900, which had been sitting under a beer glass on a table in neutral territory. "Thanks for the cash!"

"NO!" a sudden outburst from the Latino halted Stephen. He was _enraged_. He slammed his cue against the side of the table so hard that it was a wonder it didn't snap in two—and then he made a beeline for Hannah. She jumped out of her seat and scrambled away, but Stephen was in front of her in a second, standing as a protective barrier between her and the sore loser.

"_No._" he pointed a firm finger in Stephen's face. "_You_ didn't win anything! Your _putita_ cheated!"

Hannah's jaw dropped. She knew enough Spanish to know what he had just called her, and it wasn't very nice at all. So, acting on retaliatory instinct alone, she did something she had never done before: she threw her drink in his face.

For a second, everything went still; Hannah, Stephen, and the Latino were all in near-catatonic shock. But then the Latino snapped.

"You little," he grit as he launched toward her, but Stephen shoved him violently backward. He recovered and threw a big right fist, but not quick enough. Stephen dodged out of the way, and the Latino clocked one of his buddies trying to get in on the action instead. It was their chance to make a break for it.

"Time to go!" Hannah shouted. Stephen didn't argue; he knew he'd be in big trouble if word got back to Vince that he had clobbered some random guy two nights before WrestleMania, and so they hightailed it out of there. Once outside, they jumped into the first cab they spotted. "The InterContinental Miami!" Hannah ordered, and the driver took off just as the Latino burst out of the bar, cursing insults in Spanish as they disappeared down the street.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Hannah and Stephen had arrived safely back at the hotel; and whether it was the alcohol, the adrenaline, or a combination of both, they just _could not_ stop laughing about everything that had just transpired.

"I can't believe you tossed yer drink in 'is face!" Stephen proclaimed. "I mean I don't blame ya, but I can't believe ya did it."

"I can't believe you won $900!" Hannah returned. "And from someone who looked like he _might_ have worked for a Cuban drug lord, no less."

"Hey, it wasn't just me. You saved my arse," Stephen admitted. "Which you didn't have ta do, by tha way."

Hannah sent him a look over her shoulder. "Don't you know my last name, Stephen? I didn't want to be on the losing team."

"Well, I owe you half of tha winnings," he returned. He pulled the wad of bills from his pants pocket and counted out $450 exactly. Hannah accepted the payout with a wide grin.

"Why, thank you," she said—but then a look of realization crossed her face. "We ran out without paying our tab."

"Yeah, an' my car is still parked in that garage back at tha restaurant," Stephen added.

Hannah's eyes widened, and then she burst out in laughter. "Oh my God, I forgot all about your car. I shouldn't laugh. I'm sorry."

He waved her off. "It's fine. I had a good time, I'll get it tomorrow."

"I had a good time too," she smiled. Truly, she had. It may have gotten off to an awkward start, but Stephen had turned out to be a pretty fun date, after all.

However, when they arrived back at Hannah's hotel room the awkward tension made a sudden comeback.

They stood in silence in front of her door. Hannah literally had no idea what to do. _Should I kiss him? But that would make him think I want another date. _Do_ I want another date? Shit, I don't know._

"This is the awkward part," Stephen spoke up. Hannah cracked a smile; thank God he had a sense of humor. "I know I stuck my foot in my mout' earlier, but I really am glad we went out."

He moved closer as he spoke. Hannah wasn't sure if it was due to nerves or desire, but she stayed right where she was. "I'm glad you stuck your foot in your mouth," she said. He leaned in closer. "It broke the ice."

Stephen smirked, but he didn't say a thing. Their lips were centimeters from each other now—and then he kissed her.

Hannah didn't feel a thing.

Well, she felt his lips on hers, and his hand on her back, and his muscles tense underneath her touch. But there was no passion, no yearning, no imaginary fireworks going off the in the background. It was dull.

They broke apart, and Hannah could tell that Stephen had felt it too. "It" being "nothing." Simultaneously, they broke down laughing.

"Well," Hannah managed to say, "I think we might make better drinking buddies than we do a couple."

Stephen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I think yer right. But hey, if ya ever want ta help me hustle anot'er game of pool I'll give ya a call."

"Absolutely."

He smirked. "Goodnight, Hannah," he said as he gave her a hug.

"Goodnight," she returned; and as she let herself back into her hotel room she decided that the night hadn't been a total bust, after all.

_But I am _never_ letting my dad set me up again._


End file.
